


The Bleeding Eyes of Prophets

by lemonfizzies



Category: TAZ - Amnesty, The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Missing Persons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a frankly absurd and ridiculous amount of inspiration from edgar allen poe's The Raven poem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-07-14 08:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16037132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonfizzies/pseuds/lemonfizzies
Summary: A missing child. A suspicious newcomer. An old, old friend. A door left ajarwasn't it shut just a moment ago?. A magnetic presence in the air. Goosebumps and chills. Cinnamon and cloves. A liminal space. Anpoorlyingeniously brokered exchange.Something terribleand old and familiaris watching, just beyond the treeline. Dappled in late afternoon shadow and dripping with evil beyond language. Something is coming to Kepler, the likes of which The Pine Guard will be unable to defeat.At least, not on their own...





	1. Incident 732-H [63054-0903-KV]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Prophet!_ **said I** , _thing of evil!— Prophet, still, if bird or devil—_  
>  _whether Tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore!_  
>  _Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—_
> 
> _On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—_

Sunset. Amber light washes Kepler of its sharper edges, leaving a soft, malleable space upon which twilight silently encroaches. The dingy off-white backboard of Kepler Cinemas drips gold in the sunset, boldly heralding the arrival of last season's blockbusters.

The tinge of autumn is carried on the backs of spiced breezes, the pines and wildflowers losing their vivacity in the advent of the seasonal shift -- the first hints of eventual winter slipping in, though not quite settled to stay.

Autumn. The sunset of seasons. A haunting space between light and dark, warmth and chill, in which the crackling electricity of spirits to manifests between empty, flourescent-lit aisles of dime stores.

Sunset. Two lovebirds titter and croon at the ticket window, little more than a melting tangle of addled limbs. A child prods and plies his mother as she fails to recall the name of his favorite candy, all too aware of the sympathetic glances thrown by patrons passing through the lobby. A trio of teenage girls swap rubber bracelets, the eldest presenting her phone to the clerk as proof of purchase for online tickets.

And so, the humble livelihood of Mr and Mrs O'Keefe etches itself into the history of Kepler, West Virginia, one ticket -- one sale, one greeting, one lover's reunion, one family, one outdated romcom -- at a time.

"Ma'am, this concession bundle was discontinued several weeks ago." the bespectacled teen behind the register is heavy with dread over bringing this to the mother's attention, too familiar with her own mom's habit of making a scene over expired coupons in the supermarket. The mother loosens her grip on her son, ready to pull the flyer from her purse, and he takes this opportunity to bolt away into the darkened hall. He giggles triumphantly (finally, we're gonna get a GOOD seat!) upon reaching the digital signage outside the theater, now seating.

Night. Not in Kepler, West Virginia, where sunlight clings to the edges of the trees, caught in car mirrors and storefront windows, but in Theater Four, Kepler Cinemas. The dark of the room is unnatural, seething with malice where he has barreled in through the doors, up the blind ramp bordered by stairs. The silver screen is blank and trembles lightly where it hangs. All the seats are empty and, yet, he can feel some presence lurking in the rows of seats beyond.

"Mom!?" he blurts out, as though he might be capable of speaking her into existence with the instinctual plea. The darkness answers in kind, a breathless, empty reply sending skitters down the child's spine. He backs away, into the hall, which is longer than when he came in -- too long. He cannot find the exit with his eyeless, groping palms, but he dares not tear his eyes away from that screen, this room. The exit signs are dark. The lights along the edge of the stairs are dark. The room is dark. His chest constricts, suddenly incapable of processing the heavy air. He gulps and gasps for it, frozen in his place, doubling over; head over knees over heels.

The darkness of Theater Four is complete. The darkness and the silence, both.

Hours later, the mother is sick with dread and worry and panic and guilt, sobbing into the arms of her boyfriend while an officer takes a statement amid the garbled wails as best she can.

Matthew Newton-Donaghue is missing in Kepler, West Virginia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! this is a teaser for a project im SUPER psyched to create!!!
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> first off, this is going to be my first truly longform fic!!!! (excluding All Bottled Up which is going to be more of a series than a single piece, oops). I've got big big plans for this one so I won't be tagging everything right away! Gotta avoid spoilers, ya know?~☆
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> expect sporadic updates until December, when u will receive a whole lot of updates, probably lol
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> as of today, only Episode 15 of Amnesty is released and nothing conflicts with my story plans.......yet. I will do my best to retcon mildly as both this story and its source material develop over time but major divergencefrom canon may eventually constitute the relegation of this fic to "AU" territitory.


	2. Have You Seen Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stitch a bleeding heart before the weight tears you apart

Worry is a paralytic.  
It begins with a sinking pit in the gut -- a hesitation, a blip. Compounds into a broken phonograph and tailspins -- awful outcomes stuck on repeat, obscuring judgement and crowding reason from the mind. Assumes final form as an all-encompassing dread, a foggy creature coiled about the worrier as a boa constrictor, tightening with each beat -- each breath, each thought, each step -- of the heart; the worrier is anchored in stasis, in Hell itself, until the beast is assuaged. Paralyzed.  
Jane Newton battles furiously against her demons, not the least of which is Worry, despite her boyfriend's best intentions. With numb legs and mist condensing in the corners of her eyes, she battles.  
Have You Seen Me?  
Dozens of flyers for Matthew lay scattered about the countertop; the one nearest Jane functioned as an abysmally cruel joke of a placemat. He smiles up at her from the grainy photograph, cropped from a candid shot of a birthday celebration.  
Matthew Newton-Donaghue smiles brightly in every square mile of Kepler, West Virginia. Attached to every available surface  
Jane Newton is too tired to sob, too anxious to collapse, and too worried to think straight anymore. Steam wafts lazily from her oversized mug, settling damp in her lungs with a deep inhalation. The pleasantly burnt smell of Arabica beans assaults her nose.  
Morgan Donaghue clatters about the kitchen as silently as possible, apron whispering secrets as he moves. He clicks his tongue at odd intervals. Barns Courtney belts from the bedroom down the hall, an alarm they both neglected to snooze, and a dull ache rises in Jane's chest.

 **A thousand pictures in my mind  
** **In a painting of the past**  
**I'm brushing over lines**  
**And I'll paint them all again**

Jane exhales sharply, not quite a laugh or a sigh, and tightens her grip on the mug. Morgan hums along, softly, not wanting to spoil Jane's hazy peace. The pop and whistle of oiled sausage provides the beat, the smell of eggs and potatoes suddenly overwhelming.

 **We're floating fast over traffic lights  
** **Bearing down on blackened skies**  
**Colors burst as I close my eyes**

Coffee splashes her knuckles as she slams the mug down on the counter, eliciting a sharp hiss but nothing more. Morgan falters and seems to shrink behind the safety of the stove, eyes fixed too firmly upon the pan he holds. She is beside him in an instant, arms crossed and anger roiling dangerously beneath her languid demeanor. Morgan fidgets with the pan, flipping previously flipped sausage once more, for lack of better distraction. An uneasy quiet stretches between them. Lovers torn and bound by grief.  
"How." she shatters tension with a single syllable, and it is not a question. It is a demand. He stiffens and seems, for a moment, ready to abandon the stovetop entirely. A shudder shakes him free within seconds, and his dread-filled expression melts into one of morose empathy. He speaks not a word. Hot oil pops onto his forearm where it has been left hovering, suspended above the sausages now entering well-done territory. Spatula discarded in silence, Morgan closes the space between them with a fervent embrace. Jane's seething irritation, which would have risen to outright resentment in the wake of any other response, dissolves into hysterical sobs.  
"H-How can you just -- how can -- as if everything's just normal? He's out there alone -- like you're okay?"  
Morgan's porcelain heart skips a beat and breaks apart. He doesn't have an answer -- how could he? What answer can be given without shattering the fragile bonds holding his own composure? Jane shrinks and buries her face in his chest, directing the anger and guilt she feels towards the force of her cries and wails. Each noise is a shard of glass in Morgan's helpless soul, until tears spill hot and heavy down his cheeks as well.  
In the incomprehensible absence and overwhelming presence of Matthew, Jane and Morgan fell apart together.  
In the kitchen.  
Next to the stove.

_uwaankh! uwaankh! uwaankh!_

The fire alarm jolted both from each other's grasp, with Morgan's hand nearly knocking over the pan the way he grabbed for the handle. What remained of the sausages was dry and pitiful, white smoke streaming from cracks and fissures in the meat. Jane scrambles to open windows and fan out what little smoke was hovering over the stove -- honestly, that alarm would sound if you lit a candle beneath it.  
(in fact, it already had. twice.)  
They catch each other's eyes amidst the frantic dashing about. The corner of Morgan's mouth jerks upwards in a smirk, just in time for Jane to see. She ducks her head away -- too late! A snicker escapes her lips. One hand clamps over her mouth and she whirls wide-eyed to face her boyfriend. His face splits into a grin, one eyebrow raised, and the corners of her eyes crinkle, in kind.  
They are laughing, with a vivacity that shocks them both, and the smoke alarm continues blaring on and on above them. They cling to each other; lovers stitched and freed by mirth. The sheer irony of being interrupted, the abandon with which they flung themselves into action, and the *love* that swelled both their hearts to bursting -- it's too much and leaves no room for grief. For just a moment, they are Morgan and Jane again, silly high school sweethearts, giggling over how their breakfast could be used to barbecue lunch.  
Jane comes to her senses first, catching sight of Matthew's wide, wide smile over Morgan's shoulder. Her careless laughter cuts abruptly and Morgan untangles her arms from around his neck so he can get a better look at her face. She is grim, already retreating far inside herself, further than Morgan could ever hope to reach.  
Guilt.  
It is the unspoken burden of those left behind. So tangible, so oppressive, one cannot help but lay flat beneath it. How dare she laugh, while her son could not. How dare he smile when Matthew was likely screaming for him this moment. A host of horrid outcomes playing behind both their eyes. Life must be held, suspended, until return. How dare they move on with some semblance of normalcy when he isn't even dead yet. Give him that much courtesy, at least, after you've abandoned him in the wicked world of wolves.  
Worry is a paralytic. Guilt is a cannibal.  
With meat discarded and alarm deactivated, Jane is faced with the sudden reality of breakfast. The thought of actively consuming food sickens her. Not so much for what it would be as for what it would mean. Breakfast means Morgan is leaving. Breakfast means her brother is coming.  
A half-hearted sigh escapes into the coffee mug, returned to its original position near her mouth. The warmth of the rising steam smarts in her eyes but she does not close them. Morgan finishes assembling what remians of the non-burned food and places the plate gently on the counter behind Jane.  
"When's Duck comin 'round?" he asks, and it's no wonder he didn't speak before. His voice is tired and raw, nearly cracking from strain. Jane closes her eyes.  
"Soon. Seven. Maybe later if he's late."  
Morgan doesn't laugh. It wasn't a joke, either way. He nods, and moves to leave but something keeps him anchored to the kitchen, some hesitation prevents the cross to the door. He turns.  
"They'll find him." he says with all the confidence of a man at the gallows, and then, quietly "We have to find him."  
Jane doesn't acknowledge this. How could she? What answer can be given without shattering the fragile bonds holding her own composure?  
The door shuts behind Morgan, who must hold himself together in front of executives and coworkers (who will whisper about him later, either way), leaving Jane alone, who must hold herself together for no one (but who holds herself together anyways), surrounded by the absence of Matthew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since morgan doesnt exist -- and Jane has yet to be explored -- in canon, figured some establishment was necessary before we really kicked into the plot (and this chapter was just......w a y too long in full. it'll be spread out over the next couple chapters). Gotta build a world before you break it, right? I appreciate your patience while I set the stage!!! thanks so much for the positive reception already!


	3. Ready, AIm, Don't Shoot the Messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> duck makes a house call

*ring ring!* *click!*

_"Hey, Duck, you awake?"_

_"Zeke!? Hell, I am now. What do y--"_

_"Uh, first off, I'm awful sorry to hear about your nephew. We're gonna find him for you and Jane, soon as we can."_

_"Thanks, Zeke. I definitely appreciate ya callin' at four...no, four-thirty in the morning, just to tell me that. Really, you shouldnt have."_

_"Well, there's a bit more to it than that, but I can understand that you're not in the most patient frame of mind. I'll make this brief."_

_"Appreciated."_

_"The boys and I think it's time we started combin' the forest for, uh, for a body. For Matthew's body."_

_"You know, it's funny, I just had a thought! I'm not Jane Newton! You should really talk to her."_

_"You know we can't do that, Duck."_

_"Jeezus-Loueezus, Zeke, it's 4am. Don't ask me what I think you're gonna ask me."_

_"Your little sist--J-Jane Newton has expressed rather aggressively that she will not entertain the idea that Matthew may have been murd--uh..well that your nephew may no longer be with us. And if we want to search the whole forest, including the reserve and park and every damn ski lodge between, we've got to do it before the needle cover gets too thick. We already hit the first cold snap of the season, soon it might be too late to get any real progress made. We....well, we figured..."_

_"I'll talk to her, alright? Is that what you want from me?"_

_"...you're a good man, Duck."_

*click!**ka-ka-chink!*

Duck slowly turns the key in the ignition before removing it to the sound of a satisfying series of clunks and chinks. The idling engine falls dormant and the stillness of the morning seeps back into the car, bringing with it a small wave of relief.

The hazy weight of witching hours have not quite left Kepler, even as light muddies greys into unsaturated blues above the mountains. Moths flit and flutter, bashing headlong into window screens and neon signage. Kepler is still tangled in the shadows of the night, though morning fast approaches.

Duck lets out a long, slow breath, arms locked at 9 and 3 with open palms upon the steering wheel. He doesn't want to do this. He really, really doesn't want to do this. The conversation with Sherrif Zeke plays over and over in his mind. Why did he even agree? Well....you'll agree to almost anything at four in the morning.

He was realizing with each passing day that he'd fallen somewhat out of touch with Jane over the past few years, and dropped all semblance of contact since joining the Pine Guard earlier that year. He knew about Morgan and he knew about Matthew. He sent cards for birthdays and visited for major holidays but ... how much did he really know about the kid? Morgan and Jane's social lives? If she was still freelancing and whether he ever *did* go back for his master's degree?

"Hopefully he didn't forget what you look like," Jane had icily remarked last time he agreed to pick Matthew up from practice. What's worse is Duck literally can't remember what team the kid was on to begin with.

Realizing he's clenched his jaw, Duck inhales deeply, slowly, and tries to release the tension in his body. His breath fogs out before him, and he realizes the temperature's dropped considerably since he shut off the car (and, by extension, the heater). No wonder he's tense, he's close to freezing out here. His fingers stick to the steering wheel and seem suddenly too thick for the handle. In no time at all, he's traversed the empty driveway and arrived upon the porch. He enters the house with his own key, comforted that at least this much has not changed. Knocking gently, he calls out to let Jane know he's arrived.

A large mug of ... cofee(?) is abandoned upon the counter, steam faintly visible in the early morning light from the kitchen window as it rises from the mug. Arabica. Duck recognizes the brew their father considered a cornerstone of the perfect breakfast. Dirty pans and dishes are stacked next to the sink, and the kitchen smells of smoke. The mug is warm, of course, so his sister *must* be around somewhere.

"Jane!" Duck shouts, growing worried and uneasy with the lack of response. Though the dawn was breaking outside, the interior of the Newton-Donaghue home seems to drown in shadows. In fact, as Duck ventures further into the hallway, he wouldn't be surprised if someone told him a vampire had light-proofed the place.

Duck finds Jane seated in the study, back to the doorway, silently contemplating a large oil painting of waves crashing on a beach.

"Jane? Hey, it's, uh, me. I heard about Matthew. Did Morgan tell you I was coming?"

Morning light pours in from an east-facing window but the room remains draped in shadow. She doesn't turn to face him. He knows better than to enter the room until she's acknowledged his presence. Still, though, the silence is eerie. The shadows are too deep. Something about this (everything about this) seems … wrong.

"Janey, you alright?"

"Nice of you to finally drop by."

It's a single, hoarse sentence, but it carries all the sting of a third degree burn. She must be hurting, bad. He knows this, objectively, he knows she is likely lashing out as a defense against the inevitable discussion of the reason behind his visit, and he knows she probably really *did* feel hurt by his absence, lately. He knows this and he feels like shit that it really took the disappearance of her kid to get him to visit. And apparently, not even that was enough. No, it took the prospect of a body hunt to get him over here. What could he really say?

He's been silent too long and, so,  Jane scoffs louder than necessary.

“Whatever. You’re here now, right? That’s what counts, I guess.”

She finally turns and Duck rushes in, practically crushing his baby sister in a hug. It’s unusual, to say the least, for Duck to initiate contact and Jane is caught off-guard to the point that she immediately bursts into tears. She clings to her brother like she had during countless other times after childhood scrapes and nightmares. They don’t speak, just stand in the shadows of the morning for far too long, separating at Jane’s behest before it has been nearly long enough. Almost immediately, they lapse back into timeless familiarity, as though they’d never fallen out of contact.

Back in the kitchen, Duck fusses over Jane’s hair and clothes and eye bags while she tries to get him to just relax and sit at the counter. Once this is accomplished, she makes busy preparing a mug of hot chocolate for him.

“I just, you don’t look good, that’s all,” Duck tries to explain just a little too late. He knows it’s futile. Jane is her own woman, a grown adult, and she was never big on listening to him anyways. “just, is there anything I can get? Anything I can do for you?”

“You can bring back my son.”

The deadpan is far too effective. Duck chuckles awkwardly and tugs his collar, suddenly warm.

“Actually, uh, about that?” he chokes and clears his throat, trying to stall for a moment to steel himself. “About, sorry, ugh, *ahem* about that…uh, how do you…how do you feel about shooting the messenger?”

Why did he blurt that out, of all things?!? Too late, Jane literally halts her current task of stirring, turning only her head to give him a deeply confused glare.

“Excuse me?”

“Just, ah, you know! You know, just, hypothetically, I mean. How do you feel…about…shooting the..the messenger. Hypothetically.”

Jane sighs and shakes her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. She resumes stirring.

“What’s the bad news, then? Out with it.”

Duck considers, for just a heartbeat of an instant, lying. But she’d see through that quicker than she saw through his stalling.

“It’s. It’s about…goL-LEE, maybe you should sit down? It’s about Matthew.”

Something heavy comes over Jane, heavier than she was even in the morn-lit room. She holds the spoon in one closed fist, refusing to look at Duck.

“Is your name Ezekiel Owens?”

She never answered about shooting the messenger, did she? Whoops.

“No but, Janey, he asked me to –”

The spoon goes flying, slammed straight into the sink. Duck shuts the hell up before the mug follows.

“Did you find my son?”

Duck swallows. Of course he hasn’t.

“That’s what I thought. So, if you haven’t found my son and you aren’t Sheriff Zeke, then what in the hell could you possibly tell me that I haven’t already heard?”

Duck stands in protest and finds his vision dips into pure black for just a moment, before everything goes back to normal. Oof. Shaking his head sharply, his sympathy vanishes. He came all this way, was patient, comforted her, everything a brother should do, and on top of that, she’s refusing to listen?? To what, the idea her song might be…might be out there? Would she prefer they never find him at all? Jane notices the sudden change in his demeanor, in the way he holds himself, and recognizes its origin.

“Go home, Duck.”

Her voice is hardly above a whisper, perhaps not to provoke him and perhaps to do so intentionally.

“You can’t ignore it forever, you have t—”

“How can i?!?” Jane snaps, and she slams the mug of half-prepared drink down on the counter, spilling it everywhere. The mild burn is quickly forgotten in her frenzy to salvage the missing posters for Matthew. Duck stands and says and does nothing. Good, he thinks. Maybe she’ll reconsider.

“I’m waiting by the phone! By the movies! Morgan’s tearing himself apart! WE’RE tearing ourselves apart! Already! We literally can’t ignore anything about this! The house is quiet, the photos are everywhere but our son isn’t anywhere! So just go, okay? If you’re gonna be talking like that, then go." A beat, a pause, a hesitation. "We’ll call you when he’s home.”

It occurs to himself, vaguely, in the back of his mind that this is not how he usually feels about her, about people in general, and even feeling is a far cry from letting it show, from reacting the way he is. But he is angry, nonetheless.

The door slams behind him and he twists the key violently in the ignition.

*click click!* *grrrsh-ksssh* *ker-CHUNK!*

He peels out, driving recklessly, which, for Duck’s usual pattern of responsible driving, amounted to coasting about 4 miles above the speed limit and hanging a protected left on yellow.

The clock inset into the car dash reads 7:32am.

The fully-risen sun floods the car (he forgot his sunglasses at home), so Duck fumbles with the visor, cursing loudly. His silhouette casts a double shadow across the empty passenger seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u know it literally occurred to me like yesterday that this fic doesn't really need to be the next great American novel so uhh the prose might kick the bucket every time I want to get thru a scene quickly and editing will be...minimal. major scenes and points will still get the purple prose and elaborate extended metaphors they deserve tho lmao.


	4. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck has a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> || And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, ||  
> And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the  
> floor; ||  
> And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor ||  
> Shall be lifted- nevermore! ||

_"Hey, Zeke? Zeke, yeah, hey, it's Duck. She didn't go for it. No, I didnt mention the needlefall! Listen, Zeke, Z-E-EKE! Just let me try with Morgan before you go marching out there, alright? ... What the hell is that supposed to mean? No, no, say it again I wanna hear. ... Well, she isn't some piece of furniture, she doesn't get *handled* by anyone. I know damn well what you meant, I still don't want none of it! Leave my little sister alone, how's that for 'handling' things, huh? Don't you dare step a toe in my park before she calls to tell me you've got the go-ahead, or I will call...your deputy...to arrest you? Damnit, Zeke, I'll talk to Morgan but just stay the hell away from Jane!"_

**☆☆☆**

He wasn't late, but he was close. 8:27. Which is pretty wild, when you consider he was going 5 above the usual speed limit. Sure, he'd initially been fine with the idea of being late, if it meant checking in on Jane, but he'd since changed his tune.

There's a chip on his shoulder, that's for sure, and he can't seem to shake it. Because he knows this is completely out of character, even as he slams the car door, shoves keys angrily into his too-small pockets, and stomps into the Ranger Station. This is juvenile.

Speaking of juvenile, Mindy - the rec organizer - is waiting with arms crossed over a thick Manila folder and a chipper smile.

"hey, Duck!" she waves stiffly.

"Mindy." he replies, already dreading qhat he knows she's here for. "Lemme guess, my turn as Senior Junior Ranger?"

Mindy's stiffness melts away, though the smile stays in place. Guess that was genuine.

"Ugh, you have *no* idea what a relief it is to work with people like you!" she shoves the Manila folder into Duck's chest with a schumpf!, briefly knocking the air out of him with the force of the handoff. "Straight to the point, no beef, and, yeah, you've got the Junior Ranger program until November. Basic outlines are already in there but you're allowed to spice things up if you feel like you're qualified! After all, every ranger brings a--"

"--brings a special skill to the program, yeah, Juno mentioned back when she got assigned." Duck cuts Mindy off and tempers her enthusiasm with blunt disregard. Her smile fades, and she tucks some stray hair behind her ear, nervously.

"Ah, right, word gets around...guess we've been running the program long enough. Almost a year, this January!" she brightens, but quickly backpedals when she meets Duck's mile-long stare. "Anyways, ah, everything you need is in there. Make us proud, Duck NEWTON!"

Duck's eyes widen at the addition of his last name in entirely the wrong voice and he barely has a moment to brace himself before Minerva has appeared in all her terrifying glory, right in the middle of his office, right in front of Mindy. Great.

Duck only nods, knowing Mindy can still see any reaction he gives but never the creature he is reacting to, and immediately speedwalks to the timecard machine. He clocks in and Minerva takes note of the fact that he's ignored her, so she begins pestering anew.

"Thank goodness you're still alive, we must discuss looming threats at hand! There is trouble brewing! There are monsters you cannot begin to think of facing without --"

"Minerva!" Duck hisses, fumbling to dump the file folder in his cubicle and grab his keys, catching the eyes of a fellow ranger who quickly looks away and makes a show of stacking papers on his desk. Duck finally finds his keys amid the mess on his desk and practically bolts out the door to the round dirt circle which serves a sboth a loading zone and parking lot for the Ranger station. He lets out a sigh of relief, right as Minerva sighs in frustration.

"Though you may be a great hero in training, there is much you still dont underst--"

"Are you blind?!?? Where am I? Do I look like I'm going to be fulfillfing any damn prophesies right now?!?"

Emboldened by his relative distance from the closed back door of the Ranger Station, Duck turns sharply on Minerva, though he keeps his voice down out of habit. Minerva's form flickers and she is silent. Duck takes the opportunity to start the engine on the patrol Jeep and then speedwalk back inside, intending to beeline for the bathroom. He'd forgotten earlier, in his rush to escape prying eyes.

"Prophets see beyond the flesh, Duck Newton! I am far from blind!" she finally calls after him, though her voice betrays uncertainty and she doesn't follow, for once.

As he goes to pull open the door, he hears muffled voices. A ranger and a clerk speak in hushed tones near the door, where they hope no one will hear, but Duck couldn't know this, so he assumes everyone in the room is talking about this whenever he leaves.

_"Really, what sort of mother --"_

_"--so young, that's the new generation I suppose but do you think she might--."_

_"No, of course not, didn't you hear? Donghue's staying--"_

_"--Such a fine young man. But they're not even married, so...why bother finding another cow when he gets the milk here for free?"_

_"Honestly, if she wasn't his sister, I'd have made my mind known already but...well, you know."_

_"Good call"_

Duck fumed silently, gritting his teeth. So, it was true, then. He'd felt it a bit back when Jane first got pregnant, but he'd convinced himself it was only imagined since nothing outright violent ever went down. Stupid! Just because no one said it to his face, he wanted to think the best of them but...well, small towns never do change, huh. The voices tittered and hushed a few moments longer before fading entirely. Duck was left alone in the faint hum of an early morning forest. He waited an eternity, though it was only a few minutes, before entering. All smiles, at least on the faces of those who noticed. The rest kept their heads down or earbuds in. As he walked to the bathroom he couldnt help but wonder...which one of you said it?

Of course it didnt matter. One person's all it ever takes to keep a gossip mill turning. And apparently, Jane had just overstayed her welcome on the grindstone.

Minerva is gone by the time he reaches the jeep, vanished into the air, and for all Duck cares, if he saw her again today it would be too soon. He punches the radio on and sits in the idling Jeep, carefully regaining his composure one breath at a time. The distinctive voice of Johnny Cash spills out the speakers, washing him in nostalgia.

 

**♫♪♪ I find it very, very easy to be true**

**I find myself alone when each day is through ♪♪♫**

 

He can practically hear his mother laughing, loud and surprised, as his father spins her around the family room.

**♫♪♪ Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you**

**because you're mine, I walk the--♪♪♫**

 

\--"Duck Newton, you call THIS music? Where are the discordant screams of your enemies?"

 

Duck exhales long and slow through the nose, gripping the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He's long since stopped jumping whenever Minerva appears out of nowhere, like that. As the jeep pulls out of the lot, Minerva chatters on  about forces conspiring to destroy humanity, forces which she urges Duck to confront as quickly as possible. She chatters all the way to the end of Duck's patrol in the late afternoon, her never stopping and him rarely responding.

"There is a monster in Kepler, Duck Newton, it bleeds woe and calls a great evil to consume you! Why have you not confronted it yet? You must strike while it is weak! I don't have much time! You must eradicate every threat, or, you are not fit to be called Chosen One! You must --"

"Minerva!" Duck finally snaps and slams the brakes, Jeep skidding to a halt along the shoulder of the dirt path. He's shaking, though from laughter or tears is anybody's guess. "I don't KNOW. What the FUCK. You're TALKIN' 'bout. Just tell me where the monster is then I'll grab the Pine Guard and Beacon, and we'll...we'll fuckin' take care of it. Just God, Minnie, what the hell? I don't need the hero talk all over again!"

Now it is Minerva's turn to laugh. Duck is stunned by how much she sounds like the memory of his mother, so much so that the Jeep jolts forward as his foot lifts from the brake pedal. He swears and slams thevehicle into park before turning to face Minerva fully. He can't make out a face, not within her silhouetted spectral form, but he can tell the laugh is devoid of malice. Bluegrass music drifts from somewhere beyond the car, not much louder than the radio.

"Oh, Duck Newton," she begins, pantomiming wiping a tear from her eye, "human ignorance truly knows no  bounds."

Before Duck even has a chance to react, Minerva is gone, completely vanished once again. Duck shakes off the weight of the implication of her last statement, and finally pulls into the Ranger Station lot once again, backlit by a late afternoon  sun. Picking up his Manila folder and punching his timecard on the way out, Duck is posessed by the sudden feeling he isn't alone. He sits in his car -- lights off, engine off -- and hold his phone in his hands, staring at the small list of contacts within.

_*ring ring!* *click*_

"Duck?"

"Hey, Ned."

"Eyy, uh, what...what's shakin', fella? Is this about the...ah, the Conifer....Soldiers?"

"The wha--," Duck snorted, instinctually, "Ned, do you *snerk* do you mean the Pine Guard?"

"Yeah, whatever, jackass. I swear i'm the only one who cares about secrecy in this group."

Ned's jovial tone drops and Duck doesnt reply to that, not verbally, anyways. He fidgets with the rear-view mirror as he makes up a fake reason for calling Ned. "I think I just saw something in the bushes" seems juvenile when it comes to saying it out loud. The adjustments dont do much good, either. The car is cast too deep in shadow to really see anything clearly out the back window.

"Half-Shell Pearls? The little club? What the hell you wanna go *there* for?"

Duck shrugged, then realized Ned coudln't see him right then. He clarified, saying "Aw jeezus, Ned, I just...Given everything lately, I thought, uh  maybe? It would be fun?"

Ned is silent for so long, Duck briefly checked the screen of his phone to make sure the call was still connected. It was.

"Are you alone?"

Duck sputters, caught off guard,but explains that yes, he is alone. Ned hums, noncommittal and pensive.

"I really didn't peg you as a cap collector, Duck..." When he finally speaks again, something about Ned's voice is guarded, hesitant, but passes as quickly as it manifests, "...but as **delightful** as an evening altogether sounds, I simply have to refuse. Kirby and I are working on a new exhibit and, well, it's going to take a --"

"--Ned, I got the popcorn, did you say to rent the first Alien or Aliens with an 's'?"

Kirby's voice is audible, faintly, in the background and Ned laughs nervously, his voice booming through the phone to drown out his assistant's, "Oh, yes, Friend  Kirby! The alien exhibition, we must get this installed immediately!, Goodbye, Duck!"

_*click**bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaa*_

Duck let the dial tone fill the empty car, irritated at Ned's refusal. The sun sank heavier and the car stayed just as dark as before.

 

☆☆☆

 

Duck busied himself with adjusting his badge, for it was already fast approaching nightfall when he arrived at the lodge. He carried his bi-monthly box of Monongahela Park pamphlets for Barclay to restock the "nearby activities" section.

Agent Stearn reclined in a near-empty lodge lobby, leafing through last week's daily paper and taking the odd swig of ginger ale between pages. He commented obnoxiously to Barclay on various articles, hoping to lull the man into a false sense of security. It had literally the opposite effect; Barclay knew full well the stoic agent who arrived to investigate him was not the type to care about the missing persons column -- at least, not the type to care so LOUDLY.

"And another thing," Stearns forced himself to project, "where are all the mothers? What woman lets her kid wander off unsupervised? Too preoccupied with shopping for the newest heels, I suppose!"

Barclay fumed with his back to the man, hands on his hips, ready to tell Stearn exactly where he could shove those heels, alongside his obvious disdain for women who -- let's be real -- probably didn't have much help from their partners if they were anything like Agent Stearn. He whirled around, about to say that exact thing, and stopped cold. Duck loomed over Agent Stearn from behind, the heavy box of pamphlets poised to drop directly on the man's head. Agent Stearn continued to ham up his performance of the "just one of the bros" stereotype, unaware.

Barclay doesn't know how to tell the man he's about 4 seconds away from death, so he bites his lip and shakes his head, and walks away, hands in the air. "You can leave the box anywhere, Duck, I'll get it later."

Stearn jumps nearly a foot in the air as Duck slams the box down right next to him on the sofa. He's gone pale, too.

"Hell! *ahem* Hell-o, Ranger Newton. A pleasure, as always." He extends a hand stiffly, cringing internally as all trace of the sloppy persona he'd adopted for Barclay now melted into his usual, even-toned poker face.

Duck doesn't take Stearn's hand, merely fixing him with an accusatory glare.

"Jane's doing just fine, thanks. I'm sure she'd love to hear that yet another complete stranger has enough spare time to critique her parenting. Oh, wait, she's too busy bawling her eyes out over her *missing son.* Guess that leaves me to handle it, huh." Duck managed to maintain a bored sort of inflection up until that point, when his voice suddenly dripped with malice. "Anything *else* you wanna say about my sister? Because I'm all fucking ears, Stearn."

Agent Stearn swallows but doesn't put any distance between himself and Duck. The title of "Agent" was not granted for nothing.

"I am truly sorry for your loss, Ranger Newton, and if there were anything I could do on behalf of the FBI and the United State--"

"Stop talking like he's already dead, like, seriously shut the hell up or you're gonna lose teeth."

Agent Stearn goes rigid, all sympathy drained from his posture. When he speaks, after an extended beat, his voice is measured and cold.

"Are you threatening a federal agent, Duck?"

Duck doesn't respond but his jaw is clenched tight enough to show prominently, even in the fading light of the lobby.

"Duck Newton, do I need to call this in?"

"Depends. You gonna keep comin' after my family?"

Agent Stearn scoffs, almost rolling his eyes right in Duck's face. "Really."

Across the room, Aubrey and Dani tugged each other down the stairs, hushing and shushing each others' mischievous giggles. Dani's hair fell into Aubrey's face as they crouched, halted, and turned; face to face and cheek to cheek. And then Dani freezes, eyes fixed past Aubrey and into the Lobby, and her hands clench around Aubrey's shoulder. Aubrey's heart turns to lead and drops from her throat into her stomach when she lays eyes upon the scene below.

Duck and Agent Stearn are tense, springs ready to uncoil with a bang of barely-contained aggression. Aubrey doesn't know what's going on but she knows she doesn't have long to dispel it. And she tears away from Dani (difficult though it would normally be), to act as human shield.

"Hi, Duck!" she grins, a little too widely, waving as she saunters up to Duck from behind Agent Stearn. Stearn relaxes visibly, seemingly relieved with the arrival of a mediator, but Duck undergoes no such change. If anything, he narrows his eyes at Aubrey, suspicious and irate. She knows this, of course, but she plows ahead anyways. When has brute force ever gone awry?  
"Ooh, pamphlets! Hey, Agent Stearn, are you gonna be checking out the park? Maybe Duck can give you a tour!"

The air is heavy with the weight of Aubrey's presence, and even Dani cringes from the staircase landing. She half-wishes she'd never offered to take an evening dip in the Springs with her, if it meant watching this absolute catastrophe.

"Hey, uh, Aubrey?" Duck's stares right at Agent Stearn as he speaks, and Aubrey shifts uncomfortably, "Didn't your mother ever teach you any manners?"

Dani charges down the stairs, running right to Aubrey, who is smoking from her clenched fists as she ducks her head away from the pair, furious and hurt in a way that surpasses words. Duck knew, Dani knew, and even if you didn't explicitly know, it would be inferrable from the fact that Aubrey's had no one come calling for her in the whole half-year she'd been in Kepler. Too young to be on her own unless something had happened to one or both of her folks, everybody guessed but nobody knew details. Agent Stearn snapped then and there, stepping forward until his forehead was level with Duck's shoulders, disgust written all  over his features.

"Give Mrs. Donaghue my best, Ranger Newton."

"She ain't married."

Agent Stearn was not judgmental so much as surprised but he knew better than to have any visible  reaction to that right now. He nodded curtly at Aubrey, then left out the front door. All three remaining parties stood stiffly in the lobby, unwilling or unable to break the surreally suspended moment first. Tears streamed down Aubrey's cheeks as she glared at Duck, practically unable to recognize him between the heavy shadows and distortion of his face brought on by sheer anger and…hatred?

"Don't butt in when the adults are talking anymore, okay?" Duck feigned sickly sweet geniality, then left as well. His double-shadow was flung far out and ahead of him as he shoved his way through the door and stalked to the truck. Dani rubbed Aubrey's back and shoulders, fussing over her and muttering something in Sylvan.

Aubrey watched through the glass doors of the lodge as Duck pulled his truck out of the only handicap slot.

"DUnno what the FUCK is up with 'im, I 'unno  who'd use that against someone, some fucking teammate he is," Dani switches to English, drawing Aubrey's head closer to her chest. Aubrey is shaking, still, but she is no longer crying. Only one thought present in her mind: that **wasn't**  the Duck she knew.

She wondered when he'd found the time to tint all his windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only a couple more chapters till the reveal of our mystery monster foe, aaaaaah i'm literally DYING to get to it! and i'm curious to see what y'all think it might be (Hint in the poem snippet at the top of the chapter)!  
> I came up with the idea for the monster myself so, as far as i know, it doesn't exist! so you can't cheat by googling it XD  
> feel free to go absolutely buck wild with the conspiracy theories and guesses in the comments! I won't be interacting with the comments on THIS CHAPTER ONLY for obvious reasons ;)
> 
> WHOEVER GUESSES THE CLOSEST WILL GET A SHOUTOUT AND/OR PROMO IN THE REVEAL!


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